Chapter 8 - The Return
Day Seventy-Four. JFK International Airport, New York. 7:30 PM.
The evening rain tapped lightly against the windows of the international arrivals terminal as the luxury black SUV hired by Thaddius pulled up to the curb.
Thaddius, Clarice, and Genevieve stepped out of the vehicle, looking bronzed, relaxed, and dressed in thousands of dollars worth of newly purchased European designer clothes. Porter carts followed behind them, stacked high with twenty-two pieces of pristine Louis Vuitton luggage.
"Ah, New York air," Clarice sighed, wrapping her new mink stole tighter around her shoulders. "It’s dreadful compared to Capri, but it feels good to be back to claim what’s ours."
"Remember the plan," Thaddius whispered tightly as they walked through the terminal toward the private car service area. "We go straight to the penthouse. We act shocked when we find the place dark. We call the police immediately and tell them we just returned from an urgent corporate fundraising tour in Europe."
"Do I need to cry?" Genevieve asked, checking her lipstick in her compact mirror. "Because I really don't want to ruin my makeup before the reporters get there."
"Just put your hands over your face and look distraught," Clarice instructed her daughter smoothly. "Leave the talking to Thaddius."
They stepped into the waiting executive limousine. As the vehicle glided smoothly through the Queens Midtown Tunnel toward Tribeca, Thaddius pulled out his phone to check his bank app one last time.
The screen loaded, but instead of displaying his account dashboard, a gray box popped up: ACCOUNT STATUS: PENDING SYSTEM SYNCHRONIZATION.
Thaddius frowned. "Strange. The app is glitching."
"It doesn't matter," Clarice dismissed with a hand wave. "By tomorrow afternoon, your legal team will have filed the probate documents for Seraphina’s estate. You’ll have full access to the primary Hartwell trust accounts by the end of the week."
Ten minutes later, the limousine pulled up to the grand stone entrance of the Tribeca penthouse building.
The doorman—a man named Thomas who had worked in the building for eight years—stood at the entrance. As Thaddius and his family walked through the glass doors, Thaddius put on a somber, heavy expression.
"Good evening, Thomas," Thaddius said softly, lowering his head. "Has... has everything been quiet up top?"
Thomas looked at Thaddius. There was no warmth in the doorman’s eyes. No sympathy. Only a strange, chilling stillness.
"Good evening, Mr. Mercer," Thomas said quietly. "The elevator is waiting for you."
"Thank you," Thaddius murmured, motioning for his mother and sister to enter the private elevator carriage.
As the elevator doors closed and began their smooth ascent to the top floor, Genevieve took a deep breath. "This is it. Try to look tragic, everyone."
The elevator chimed softly.
FLOOR 40. PENTHOUSE.
May you like
The doors slid open.
The hallway leading to the penthouse was pitch-black.
